


your hands are just like ice

by vavafroome (spaceboy_niko)



Series: twelve days of ficmas [1]
Category: Cycling RPF
Genre: Blizzards & Snowstorms, Gen, Platonic Relationships, winter fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:34:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27939776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceboy_niko/pseuds/vavafroome
Summary: on the first day of christmas, romain bardet gets lost in a snowstorm.
Series: twelve days of ficmas [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2045978
Comments: 7
Kudos: 7





	your hands are just like ice

**Author's Note:**

> so in the spirit of the holiday season i'm writing a little series of flash fiction bits n pieces to truly Get Festive™, aiming to upload not-regularly but frequently between now and december 24th! they're all totally unrelated unless i say so and will probably definitely vary in rating from platonic fluff like this to porn because i'm predictable.
> 
> happy holidays!! hope you enjoyyyyy
> 
> (title is from baby it's cold outside)

Romain can only ride so much around his home until it becomes easy - the roads too familiar, the tracks too predictable, nothing a challenge anymore.

It’s at times when he feels like this that he goes a bit further afield, kisses his wife and son goodbye early in the morning, picks a direction and drives until he likes the landscape, books a motel room just in case, and sets out on his bike.

Today, it’s overcast when he begins his ride, clouds hanging low in the sky and the wind nipping through his many layers. He still goes - he’s ridden in worse - and doesn’t worry too much as the first snowflakes start to fall. He keeps pushing the pedals, following the roads on the outskirts of town, and the snow keeps falling.

When he starts carving deep tracks in the snow with each pedal stroke, Romain starts to panic.

He’s got a vague idea of where he is - somewhere in the east of France, a Tour stage has gone through here recently, he recalls - but when he pulls up Google Maps, he’s a decent ride away from the motel, and it’s not a ride he wants to make if the weather will continue like this.

There’s the sound of a car behind him, and he scrambles to get himself and his bike out of the road, waving apologetically as he tries to figure out the shortest route back.

The car pulls up beside him, and Thibaut Pinot rolls down the window.

“Get in, Bardet,” he says, popping the trunk of the car. Romain is spouting thank-yous as he angles his bike into the trunk and dashes around to the passenger side.

Pinot looks disbelieving and amused. “What the hell were you doing out there?” he chuckles.

“I wanted a change of scenery,” Romain explains feebly, unclipping his helmet. Pinot shakes his head and turns down a long avenue lined with bare-limbed trees, and Romain braces as the road becomes bumpier and the chains on the tyres clink audibly.

“Didn’t you check the weather? They’ve been expecting this snow for a while now.”

“Oh.” Romain feels his cold face flush.

“Hey, it’s your funeral. Well, not literally, hopefully. You’re not going to get back to town for a while yet, not while it keeps snowing like this.”

Romain grins. “Are you kidnapping me?”

“I’m saving your skinny ass,” Pinot replies good-humouredly.

They turn into an equally-bumpy long driveway, past a small barn and a couple of other scattered outbuildings, and pull up beside a snow-capped old farmhouse, the stone and shingles quickly being hidden by the still-falling flakes.

“You can leave your bike in the hallway,” Pinot says, unhooking a key from his keychain and passing it to Romain. “I’ll be in soon.”

The air is bitingly cold when Romain gets out of the warmth of the car, and he walks his bike as quickly as possible to the front door. The lock needs a little jiggle to open, but he manages, and tries to lean his bike in such a way that it won’t scuff up Pinot’s clean walls. He leaves his cleats alongside his bike, and tentatively wanders in.

One of the first rooms he finds is a sitting room, and he waits in there for Pinot to come back, trying to find something in the room as a conversation piece for later. Guillaume Martin’s book sits on the coffee table with a slip of paper tucked in neatly as a bookmark, alongside a glossy hardcover book about birds that Romain suspects is purely for decoration. There aren’t many photos - the odd family snap sitting on a bookshelf or mantle, but nothing more than that. Pinot must keep all his memorabilia elsewhere.

The door opens and shuts quickly, and Pinot rustles off his coat, boots thudding down the hallway and past the sitting room.

He returns with a large blanket, and his hands brush Romain’s cold fingers as they arrange it over as much of Romain as it can cover.

“Jesus, you’re freezing,” Pinot says, concerned. “Do you drink tea or coffee? That’ll at least warm your hands up.”

* * *

Once Bardet is wrapped up in a blanket, sipping on a cup of tea, Thibaut can finally allow himself to relax. 

“You’re welcome to stay. I wouldn’t want to drive out there right now, and I know these roads. I’ve got a guest bedroom, I’ll show you to it if you’d like.”

“Thank you,” Bardet says, the gratitude clear on his face as he shifts his reddening fingers on his mug.

Thibaut makes the decision to stoke a fire, because it’ll at least start to thaw out Bardet, and ventures out into the cold again via his goats. The goats are fine, but the door to the barn creaks something awful - he’ll deal with that when the weather’s better.

When he comes back in, Bardet’s mug and phone are on the table, and Bardet is curled up under the blanket, long legs crammed onto the sofa. Thibaut panics slightly, goes over and sets a hand on Bardet’s shoulder, and breathes a sigh of relief when he feels the steady rise and fall of his breath. He’s definitely warmer now, thank God, and Thibaut sets to work in his fireplace.

Bardet’s phone buzzes from the coffee table, and Thibaut looks at the caller ID, sees it’s Bardet’s wife, and answers it.

“Hi, Amandine, it’s Thibaut. Pinot, that is,” he corrects himself, and curses his phone manner, glancing over to see if Bardet has been woken up. When Bardet doesn’t stir, he resigns himself to the conversation.

“Yeah, Romain is at my place. I ran into him near here, just before the start of the snowstorm. No, I don’t think he will, it’s still pretty bad out there. I have a spare bedroom, it’s no trouble- no, really, I wouldn’t want him out in this weather. He’s asleep right now- yeah, I’m keeping him warm and keeping an eye on him. It’s no problem, really. I’ll tell him to call you when he wakes up. Okay. Have a good evening, goodbye-”

Bardet wakes up when Thibaut clatters the fire tongs adding a new log onto the blaze.

“Your wife called,” he says by way of greeting. “You should call her back.”

Bardet nods sleepily, and checks the time on his phone. Thibaut’s long stopped paying attention to when it is, just keeping the fire burning and checking on Bardet occasionally and reading his book.

Bardet stands and stretches and rubs his face. “I’ll just move for a minute - don’t want to interrupt your reading.”

Thibaut nods, and returns to his page, the sounds of Bardet apologising profusely to his wife in the hallway mingling with the crackle of the fire as the snow billows down outside.

**Author's Note:**

> oh belated disclaimer but i'm australian and i've never seen snow so if someone could help me out on that front that would be great


End file.
